Blog,
I said there was a lot to tell you. As you know, I am not good at writing large, spiritual things.
For the last year I have been trying to write a poem about standing off a beach on Long Island, with Lucas and Grant, our clothes on the largest rock.
I have been trying to write about seeing Connecticut on the other side of the water.
I have been trying to write about birds scattering across the beach.
I have been trying to write about becoming aware and loosing sense of myself at the same time.
I forgot to try writing about the radio playing, as Grant drove his mom's truck.
I forgot to write about playing scrabble--long after scattering all of my possessions across Penn station, looking for Jasper's keys; long after drinking a whole bottle of water and watching Lucas finally sleep on the train; long after reading a chapter of Salt Houses, which I spent the entire summer reading; long after trying Grant's new veggie burger recipe; and still long before falling asleep.
I forgot to write about the beach the next day, and frying all of my skin, burning myself from the inside out.
I even tried writing about the source of the Mississippi river--until, after a couple of drafts, I confessed in the poem that I never been to the source of the Mississippi river.
I tried writing about the sound of the river--which, blog, you know I have not heard--and I was proud of describing its gristle.
I really have been trying to write something that changes color each time it is read.
I have been trying to write something that burns up like a comet, touching earth's atmosphere.
I have been trying to write the salt that heals wounds.
I have been trying to write kinship that messes up edges.
Blog, I am confessing to you what I am not able to write.
Blog, a poem should be transparent about what it cannot say.
No comments:
Post a Comment